


Born Every Minute

by Hope



Category: Torchwood
Genre: AU, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-15
Updated: 2009-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born Every Minute

**Author's Note:**

> Ginormous kudos to Wench for the enthusiasm that kickstarted this, as well as for the ace britpick and beta. Warning for acrotomophilia, though to avoid fic spoilers, save wikipediaing it 'til you're done.

There's a brief flare of intense detail when Gwen steps through the last of the lights, enough for Ianto to see the canyons carved by sweat through the thick makeup on her face. Striding towards him, the dimmer light behind the flaps reduces her features to the high-contrast gash of her darkly painted mouth amidst the white powder.

She nods as she approaches, his stiff stance in the centre of the shadowed space enough of a signal to draw her to him. Ianto hooks his hat off and crushes it in his fist. There's no breeze in the cloaked antechamber between ring and reality, but the enclosed air alone is enough to cool his scalp through his own sweat-damp hair.

Gwen stops before him, throwing off the scent of the paint and sweat as the breath bellows out of her, eyes still shaded by the brim of the top hat. She'd taken it off for Myfanwy but Ianto doesn't presume to be shown the same, with or without a flourish. After all, he rather feels as if he's about to place his head between her jaws rather than the other way around.

As if called up by his idle thought, Myfanwy gives a disgruntled grumble, tail flicking, as a trio of men coddle her past them and back into her cage. Gwen pays them no mind, her voice rough from belting it out into the far corners of the stands. "What is it?"

Ianto keeps his expression impassive. "Jack's back."

Her body stills at that, then she grips her hands firm on her hips as if bracing the cummerbund, legs planted wide. Her chest pushes out one more time with a deep breath. "Right. Where is he?"

"Management's."

His bland failure to infer any personal ownership in the statement doesn't go unnoticed. Gwen's eyes search his face briefly; then she nods once and marches past him. The blaze of the electrical lights crowning the outside of the Big Top floods through as she lifts up a flap of canvas, light catching the silver pommel of the the whip hanging by her thigh. She steps through and lets the flap drop again, leaving Ianto blinking.

He sucks in a deep breath of his own, inhaling the mingled scents of sawdust and burnt sugar, manure and crushed grass. He steps forward silently, peeking into the ring again. Most of the crowd have filed out and roustabouts, all the same colour as the mud-stained sawdust below, are already crawling over the frame. They dismantle it rapidly, like the earth's crawling up and breaking the structure methodically to pieces, centuries of decomposition occurring in moments.

Ianto jams his hat back on his head and exits the tent.

A little distance away from the Big Top the lights are more diffuse, certainly moreso than the sweltering brilliance of the ring. It provides him with the freedom to slip through the murkier shadows, making the swarm of the departing crowds more tolerable. The wheel's already empty, the slowed pace of its circuit making it groan in displeasure as the gondolas are detached one-by-one. He can't help but grind to a halt himself as walks by it, old anxiety rising in his throat at the seemingly precarious swing of the empty seats high above.

"Mama, _look!_"

The tone of relish in the child's voice, ordinarily so sought-after, draws Ianto out of his reverie. Invisible beneath the massive blind eye of the wheel, he finds himself abruptly scrutinised; the boy and his mother are staring at him with the kind of frank, eager repulsion that's unseemly anywhere other than a sideshow.

A chain slips and the pop and tinkle of breaking glass punctuates the clamouring metal as a light bulb shatters on the wheel above. The woman slaps her hands over her boy's ears as a roustabout curses, the obscenity severing the moment and Ianto takes advantage of its unexpected violence, stepping out of the light again, the urgency to do so thick in his gullet.

His audience of two were the last of them, and the grounds are different without the currents of awe and aggressive anticipation flowing through them. The remaining few rides are dim as Ianto walks by them, smaller sideshow tents scattered round like saplings of the Big Top. They look like shuttered lanterns now, glowing from the inside but no longer beacons of welcome.

Mainframe whickers as he nears the makeshift yard, probably scenting his approach even as he can detect her; manure and chaff and horse sweat. He smoothes his palm over her forehead where her headdress was, stroking the nap of her hide back to rights. She jerks her head, snorting into the feedbag, and Toshiko appears, bobbing around Mainframe's shoulder.

She doesn't look all that surprised to see him, though the viridescent shimmer of paint on and above her eyelids widens her gaze. She's almost invisible below the glitter, though; dun brown riding cloak hiding the rest of her performance garb, both hands mittened by the brushes she's been running over Mainframe's body. "He's back, then?"

"I don't know why _he_ gets to make the rounds, I'm the one who saw him first."

Owen drops down gracelessly on the lowest step of Tosh's caravan, slumping back to rest his elbows on the steps above. Ianto can't help but roll his eyes but is obscurely grateful for the familiar irritation; it disrupts the odd mood of sick anticipation that's overcome him since he heard.

"All hail the mighty Owen, for his noble sacrifice in watching our front gates," Tosh intones dryly.

Owen beams--his mouth was made for clown makeup, Ianto still doesn't know why Gwen agreed to let him spruik instead--with genuine pride. "Just doing my job, Tosh."

"Yes, that was rather my point," she says, sliding the brushes off her hands and leaning back against Mainframe's sturdy shoulder. Without the horse between them, the scent of paraffin lingering about her is unmistakable. "Does Gwen know?"

"Course she does," Owen says. "Only half the crew are loitering around her caravan trying to overhear them, aren't they?"

"And?" Tosh prods. She glances briefly at Ianto, but he just shares her look of mild curiosity; she'll get no disapproval from him. "Can they?"

Owen shrugs, bringing his hand up to his mouth to deposit a morsel there too quickly for Ianto to see; Janet lunges for it from her perch on his shoulder but is too late. She chitters her dissatisfaction as Owen chews ostentatiously, disregarding her entirely even as she wraps her small arms around his head instead, her tail curled about his neck for balance or affection. "Wouldn't be here if they could, would I?"

They all startle at the gunshot that booms out, Mainframe jerking her head up in surprise with the rest of them. Ianto barely pauses beyond the initial flight-or-fight freeze, moving quicker between the tents now that the space beneath the lanterns is unfettered by civilians. Toshiko and Owen are only a step behind him, Janet crowing in her glee at the sudden speedy ride. The sparkle in Tosh's tightly-pulled hair flares under the lights in the corner of Ianto's vision, like her progress is marked by metal grinding against metal.

There's a small crowd outside Gwen's caravan, mostly roustabouts, some of them scattering guiltily when Ianto approaches. He glances around at them, folding his arms to tuck his wrists beneath his armpits and planting his feet at shoulder-width. Rhys approaches; expression grim below the heavy stage paint that makes his eyes, mouth savage.

"He's still in there," he confides to Ianto. "They were shouting before, but after the shot it's been silent." This close Ianto can see the unevenness of the spots dyed into the pelt that Rhys has slung across his shoulder. Rhys folds his arms as well, the gesture bulging out his biceps, and sets his feet wide, belly thrust forward aggressively.

Their attention is draw back to the caravan by its sudden movement, rocking a little back and forth as someone--or more than one--moves within it; the gold lettering painted on--**CARNIVAL CAERDYDD - MANAGEMENT**\--winks at the small crowd. Before Rhys's growl can gain much volume at all, the door below bursts open and Jack tumbles out backwards, thudding down the steep steps with arms and legs akimbo before landing in a heap in the well-trod patch of grass at the foot.

Gwen stands in the open doorway, lamplight rich from the hangings inside, making the interior appear aflame behind her. If she were an animal her fur would be threateningly raised; as it is the sharp cut of her lapels and high collar are pointedly aggressive, black coattails stiff with her stillness as they slice behind her, almost to the top of her high, black boots. She's motionless, expressionless, hands firmly planted on hips as she stares down at Jack.

Jack lifts himself to all fours, shoulders hunched and head down even as he pushes himself up to stand, his hands brushing down the tops of his thighs. His head tilts round, surreptitiously glancing about at his audience; he has the audacity to wink when he sees Ianto standing with Owen and Toshiko, though after that he turns back to Gwen, still half-slouching. Immovable, she meets his gaze before flicking her head in a dismissive gesture; he nods and shuffles on.

Gwen turns on her heel, and Rhys climbs the steps in three powerful strides, the waggon door closing behind him without further ado. Ianto exchanges glances with Tosh before she and Owen disperse with the rest of the remaining crowd. Ianto gives himself a few more moments.

"Good act, don't you think?" Jack breathes when he gets hold of Ianto, standing unconcernedly upright in the shadow of Myfanwy's waggon. It's on the outskirts of their camp, its boarded-up side well and truly dark as it stands immediately next to the impassive wall of Ianto's caravan, and only house-free fields beyond that. Jack's words are hot against Ianto's face, incendiary.

He pushes Jack away with a hand pressed flat to his chest; Jack so easily moveable until he hits the wood panelling of the waggon and becomes abruptly solid under Ianto's touch. Ianto's eyes adjust quickly; in the dark he can see Jack's gaze searching his face, and Jack's expression becomes at least a little more solemn. Which is gratifying. Ianto's not sure he'd be responsible for his actions if Jack kept up the carefree smirk any longer.

"What, your vanishing act?" Ianto says, keeping his tone emotionless, nothing more than disinterested sarcasm.

Jack dips his head. Ianto doesn't fool himself into thinking it's an apologetic or any way submissive gesture; Jack's trying to get closer, as if see Ianto's face better. He stops when Ianto's shoulders stiffen under his hands, then slides his grip down to fondle Ianto's lapels. "Gwen's letting me back into the show."

"Not as Ringmaster again, then?"

Jack laughs. "Nope," he says. "Don't want it. Have you seen the way that woman wields a whip? Phew!" He shifts his body around as if the thought of it is enough to get him riled up, shoulders braced against the wood at his back as he unsubtly tilts his hips toward Ianto's.

"Besides," Jack begins, when Ianto doesn't press forward in return. He lets his hands palm over Ianto's chest, then slide down Ianto's arms to grip his wrists, grasping and pulling them up to his own throat, pressing in. "I have another act. A better one."

Jack's throat is hot and prickly under Ianto's palm; his fingers tighten in a spasm as Jack presses him closer. Ianto sees the metal tip press into the tender flesh under Jack's jaw and jerks away abruptly, eyes unavoidably drawn back to the site, but no blood's been drawn.

Jack slouches back, body a picture of insouciance while his gaze remains alert, observant. They watch each other for a long moment; the silence broken minutely by the shush of the rough wood pulling against the fibres of Jack's coat, waggon at his back moving as Myfanwy paces.

"You were dead," Ianto blurts. Not what he wanted to say, but unsurprising; the words roiling beneath the surface for the _months_ Jack was gone. An internal confusion accompanied by a litany of recollection, flames and fear and _monsters_, Jack dead then Jack not dead and then Jack gone.

Jack nods. "I came back."

"Then you left," Ianto retorts instantly.

Jack nods again, pauses a little longer as if to give his next words more weight. "I always come back."

"So that's your new act?" Ianto's hand has come up to Jack's throat again, moving as if to coax the words out of him physically. Jack's is still gripping his other wrist; his touch slips down to where Ianto can't feel it.

But he can feel Jack swallow under the pressure of his thumb. Jack's jaw moves, scraping sandpaper against Ianto's fingertips, when they kiss. Always opportunistic, Jack's tongue swipes against the seam of Ianto's pout and Ianto draws back again, breathing deep.

"Yes," Jack answers, close enough that it's barely a whisper, hot against Ianto's wet mouth. "I got Gwen to shoot me. Killed two birds with one stone, really..."

Ianto frowns a little, remembering the gunshot and the panic that followed it, crushed down into his belly. Jack watches his face, as always more than willing to take advantage of any cracks of weakness in Ianto's façade. "I'm sure she enjoyed that."

"Not as much as--" Jack starts, and then his hand steals around the back of Ianto's neck, pulling Ianto forward and cutting himself short, going at it open-mouthed from the start this time in lieu of finishing the verbal proposition.

Ianto hooks his arm around Jack's neck, back of Jack's skull forced into the cradle of Ianto's elbow as he tightens the hold, Jack's grunt of pleasure muffled, a puff of hot air against Ianto's upper lip.

"Jack?"

Ianto pulls back at the sound of Owen's voice, but not far; he and Jack are still pressed from chest to knee, their laboured breathing forcing their chests even tighter with every heave. Ianto licks his lips; they feel slippery, like Jack's saliva is of a different consistency to his. Jack's nose brushes his briefly, deliberately enticing, and if Ianto wasn't sure the noise would give them away, he'd give in and kiss Jack again.

"Bloody hell, Jack, I know you're in there!" The caravan behind Ianto rocks a little, wood creaking as Owen climbs the steps, out of sight but the sound familiar enough to Ianto that there's no mistaking it. Jack laughs softly, the sound covered by the thump of Owen pounding on the door.

"Ianto! Jack!"

Owen's heavy footsteps tramp down the short set of steps again, and under the sound of his muttering--"Bloody buggering _bastards_\--"Jack suddenly goes heavy in Ianto's arms, pulling them both to the ground. Jack catches them on their knees, though, then in one swift motion tips them over and rolls Ianto under him and them both beneath Myfanwy's waggon.

There's enough room for it, the wheels just as tall but set more far apart on the partially caged enclosure than Ianto's stouter caravan. Nonetheless, Ianto waits until Owen's footsteps have faded away before heaving under Jack, rolling them over again to press Jack's back flat against the earth instead of his own. The dark space is not unfamiliar to him; he hasn't always had a caravan of his own, though the memories of his time with the carnival before Caerdydd are dominated more by flames than recollections of sleeping rough.

Jack submits to it happily, legs falling open as he wriggles beneath Ianto. Ianto presses his own hips and knees down to still the movement and feels Jack's approval nudge against his belly. This close Ianto can't help but take in lungfuls of the scents coming off Jack; the dirty wool of his coat and the spice below its collar. His mouth floods with saliva, their next kiss noisier because of it, and messier when Jack grins.

 

Jack's hand closes on Ianto's shoulder, pushing Ianto's body away and twisting after it. He hooks his leg up toward Ianto's hip, orchestrating an arrangement of their bodies where Ianto's knee is forced to brace on the ground, bringing his thigh between Jack's legs; Jack grinds against it as if it was what he intended all along. Jack's body is hot beneath the layers of his clothes and Ianto shifts to free his hand from beneath his side, pull at his own belt and then Jack's, shoulder pressing hard into the ground as he rests his weight on it.

Jack's mouth on his distracts and slows him, Jack's teeth biting into Ianto's lower lip drawing all his focus until suddenly he realises Jack's grip has slid to his wrist, tightening when Ianto jerks and tries to draw it away.

"Let me," Jack pants into the narrow space Ianto's put between them, a touch too much placation in his tone for it to be cajoling. "Let me..." His mouth drags against Ianto's cheek, his jaw. Jack nudges Ianto's face to turn down into the juncture of Jack's neck and shoulder while both of Jack's hands are occupied on Ianto's forearm, unthreading and tugging at the buckles there. Ianto tips his head a little to look down the length of Jack's body; at the sight of Jack's fingers pulling away the brace he sucks in a deep breath, the familiar scent of the leather infusing the smell of Jack, and the stained wood above them.

Jack puts aside the brace and its dull, steel hook. His fingers are cold, brushing against Ianto's skin minutely as he carefully unwinds the strip of linen, bound around the limb beneath the leather. Jack closes his hand around Ianto's wrist once he's finished the exposure, the sensation against the neglected flesh intense as Jack slides his hand slowly up it; Ianto squeezes his eyes shut. With them closed, his mind is almost able to fool himself into believing his hand is still there, but Jack serves to deny it, nerves becoming insensate when his touch it reaches the cauterised stump of Ianto's wrist, scar tissue devoid of physical reception.

Jack's tongue is hot, though, and unexpected against the clammy skin of the inside of Ianto's wrist. The sensation, coupled with Jack's thumb stroking roughly against the other side--the touch disappearing but for the pressure when it brushes against the scar--skitters a spark of disquiet along Ianto's bones, curling his body up and pushing his erection against Jack's hip. If Jack hadn't disrobed him so completely he'd give into the urge to dig the hook into Jack's flesh in retaliation; as it is he pushes his face against Jack's neck, nudging Jack's collar askew with his chin and biting down hard on the tendon there.

Jack groans and laughs, breath hot and damp against the over sensitised skin he's brought up to his mouth. He revels in the lack; rubbing his smile against the scar tissue, as self-satisfied as he ever is after pulling off a successful trick. Sleight of hand, perhaps; Ianto's mind involuntarily underscores the unpleasant wordplay.

Jack tightens his grip again when Ianto tries once more to pull away but then compromises, sliding one arm around Ianto's shoulders to crush their bodies closer. He tilts his hips up, giving Ianto something to press against, and Ianto braces his hand on the ground by Jack's head again, twisting to loom upon Jack from above. He kisses Jack hard as he rocks forward, pulling his wrist out of Jack's loosened grip and pressing the side of it against Jack's neck. They both moan when Jack's hips thrust upward sharply, the movement of their mouths losing focus, Ianto's concentration drawn instead to the sensations, diffused around his body, tightening and knotting in his groin as he rubs against Jack.

Myfanwy grumbles. The boards creak as she paces immediately above them, and Ianto's abruptly reminded of the day Jack hired him, his eyes flying open again to see Jack's face so close beneath him, eyes dark with pleasure. Jack presses the tender inside of Ianto's wrist against the grain of his unshaven throat, thumb pressing against the ugly scar where Ianto's hand used to be. It would hurt if Ianto could feel it; ghosts of his fingers curl but eyes open or closed, there's no sensory input from that automatic response.

Jack's smiling blissfully before he's even come. "I've missed," he gasps up at Ianto blithely, "I've missed this."

Jack offers him a handkerchief when they're done, lying side by side and panting, the pocket square brilliantly white in the near-darkness as Jack dangles it above them.

"Bit late for that, I should think, Captain," Ianto says, voice rough as he gestures downward to where his flies haven't even been opened. He resists the urge to shift in discomfort at the cooling mess in his trousers.

Jack grins at the sobriquet, teeth as white as the handkerchief, seeming to feel no discomfort whatsoever. Ianto tips his body over again in a brief surge of strength, leaning over Jack to reach past him; Jack's eyes are briefly startled but Ianto only smirks into his face before rolling back, brace and hook firmly back in his grasp.

Jack's gaze darts to it briefly before returning to Ianto's face. "Do you want me to...?"

"No, thank you," Ianto says without inflection. He'll wait until he's back in his caravan and alone before binding it away again; after all, he's managed to do it without assistance for months, now.

Not yet, though. He'll stay here another moment. They fall into silence, gathering back energy as their breathing slows, listening to the sounds of Myfanwy grooming herself and settling above them. Gradually, Ianto gathers the threads of his thoughts back again, weaving the invisible armour back around himself, to cover all but where he and Jack are still touching.

Jack's holding Ianto's wrist against his chest, hand curled loosely around it now, innocuous. The touch is gentle enough and Ianto's body suffused with a lingering warmth that it feels-- It feels normal. With his eyes closed, Ianto could believe he's not less than a whole man.

But the illusion can't be held through irony of Jack's presence alone, Jack who had been barely aware of Ianto's existence before the amputation, and who was far from this considerate in the violence and fire that wrought it.

"I came back for you, you know," Jack says, as if aware of the turn of Ianto's thoughts. Ianto doesn't open his eyes, certainly not as Jack amends: "All of you."

In his less charitable moments Ianto thinks Jack the greatest illusionist who ever lived; an eminently skilled magician and all of them merely props in his act.

When Ianto's feeling more tender toward him, however. "Hark at you, sir," he says, and feels Jack shift next to him, attention more focused and questioning. "Saying that as if you're not one of us."

Ianto opens his eyes. The underside of the waggon is all split wood, coated with road dust. "You are, you know." Vision adjusted to the near darkness, even with the new distance that separates them, he can easily make out the gleam of Jack's eyes when he turns his head. "One of us."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1481941.html


End file.
